I've Deleted You
by patchesofnutella
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock moves to Ireland to evade familiar faces. He changes his look, profession, and name. He thought he'd escaped completely until he ran into somebody he used to know, however briefly, except this time with a little addition.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Sherlock slipped the eyeglasses that lacked in any prescription he loathed so much over his nose, brushing fingers through his dyed reddish hair, unable to tame the distinctive whorl adjacent to his hairline; the rest fell to the back of his neck in tapered curls. The glasses were petite, too round, and worthless for anybody that may actually need them, needing to look under them in order to focus properly and move the entire head to keep their vision straight. Nevertheless, they accentuated his disguise. He suppressed a wistful chuckle as he remembered what The Woman had told him.

"You know the problem with a disguise? No matter how hard you try, it's always a self-portrait." At the time, her postulation was far from logical in his eyes, but as he straightened the nameplate on his desk, the initials J.W. reminded him of the only reason he was keeping himself hidden at all, let alone alive. It may very well be the only thing that keeps his namesake hope. Surely somebody at home had observed closely enough to notice something was amiss at the funeral procession. Then again, unfortunately, too many people miss the most absolutely obvious of things. Sherlock didn't miss anything, ever.

Besides John Watson.

He was in Ireland now, making a meager, boring living teaching private violin lessons to what were mostly talentless and simple children, with even less attention span than – and he shuddered to think – Anderson. Sherlock had assumed the name of Mr. John Wright and begrudgingly retired his peacoat and striped scarf for a rather ordinary linen white shirt, solid tie, and straight ebony slacks. His blog had gone completely stale, though now he spilled observations into a leather journal, ink leaving a metallic smudge along the side of his hand after a particularly interesting day (and what day wasn't particularly interesting when you look closely enough?), or at least to document minutia like the solar system for later reference. He had learned his lesson when useless information was the ransom for a girls' life.

Today he was to begin instructing a new student. At this point, Sherlock had less than no expectations and therefore uncharacteristically high tolerance. If kindness is proportional to tolerance, Sherlock had dramatically changed in terms of pretending like ignorance was acceptable. Perhaps he could even strike up a chat with Scotland Yard, if it wouldn't cause a string of murders. He was waiting on the lower floor of the music center for his new student to arrive, one leg up on his folding chair to balance his arm enough to cradle his violin, which he was absentmindedly plucking at, head slightly cocked. It was dangerous, thinking like this. Often Sherlock would stay in his mind palace for hours, sloughing off noises and the pestering existence of others – not selfishly; for the sake of meditation.

A knock on his sliding glass door shook him out of his trance, and an eerily small Richard Brook-like accent eked through, muffled:  
"Hello, is this Mr. Wright?" Sherlock blinked, pushed his glasses up, and squinted through the glass. The boy's sharply angled eyes reflected his own as if two mirrors were reflecting each other. Shaking his head at what was almost a miniature episode of vertigo, Sherlock reached for the wooden door handle and slid it backward slowly.

"Yes." The boy stepped cautiously and lightly over the small bump of the metal doorframe and one side of his mouth tugged upward in a welcoming smile. His violin case swung carelessly at his side and Sherlock's hand reached out to steady it. "Afternoon. Have a seat. What's your name?" He realized the direct and somewhat interrogative nature of his communication was not as child-friendly as it should have been and he hoped he wasn't making the boy uncomfortable. The boy sat, crossed his ankles under the chair and leaned slightly forward, throwing dark curls in his face.

"Lucas Holmes, sir." Sherlock's brow wrinkled in a quick moment of panic, then snorted at the coincidence and shook it off.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Have you played before?"

"Only for fun. Never correctly, I doubt."

"Well, you're one step ahead already." Lucas smiled and leaned over his chair to unlatch his case. _This one's not as obnoxious_, Sherlock noted. _Almost mature. Hm._

As he began the lesson, Sherlock noticed how the surprisingly slender hands of a boy of eight wrapped around the bow and neck of the instrument with no trouble. By the end of the half hour, they had gone through what was normally three lessons' worth of the method book.

"Mr. Holmes, I must say I'm very impressed. I will be anticipating your arrival next week. Lucas's eyes lit up, almost as if he didn't get praise often at all, and he rose from his chair.

"Thank you, sir! My father's here. I also look forward to this. A lot." Sherlock was probably right. Doesn't often get praise…but why? Too mature for his age; calm, collected, polite, left out… ah. Familiar territory. Lucas's disheveled hair even showed the same evidence of sleeplessness and yet boundless energy evident in young Sherlock as well. The resemblance was eerie enough that it gave Sherlock something to do, drawing parallels.

The science of deduction was a very useful skill, and none had it quite as fine-tuned as he, but the closeness to which he observed things robbed Sherlock of much of the blissful ignorance that made beautiful and mysterious what science made simple and boring. Sometimes he just wished he could start over.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hello, everyone! Just wanted to let you know that this is actually being written by TWO authors, and I'm the second! We will be switching off chapters and I apologize for updating so late. But, yeah. ENJOY. :)**_

Chapter 2

Lucas Holmes had always been a shy boy, since the day he began his schooling a short three years ago. It was plain to see just _why_ he was so quiet, him being a small boy who was bullied often, but no one could quite pinpoint why he was bullied by all of his peers. Well, that is, no one besides Lucas himself. He had been able to deduce a list of three reasons over the years of elementary. He, also, decided people were just being far too daft to understand the obvious.

It could simply be the fact he didn't really look like everyone else, didn't fit in. His classmates fell under the completely recessive traits, most of them blonde or red-headed with green eyes or eyes as blue as glass. But him? No, not like a single one of them. He had uncharacteristically dark hair for his part of Ireland that fell in restless curls that collapsed around his face. Lucas' cheek bones cut down his pale face, drawing the attention to his thin lips, and striking blue-grey eyes. To put the icing on top of the cake, he not only didn't look like his peers, but nothing like either of his parents. His mother was tan, with clear blue eyes and blonde hair and his father was red-headed with green eyes and tense face.

Or it could that he bounced. _Literally._ As Lucas' mind raced a million miles a minutes as it gained information and he answered questions before his classmates even had a chance to process what had been asked, he bounced repeatedly in his seat. If it wasn't that, the hand he held his pencil in would loosen just enough around the writing tool to allow him to tap it on his desk, over and over again with a soft sound each time it hit, or his long and slender fingers would tap in patterns on the side of his leg or on top of the desk. He assumed being around him at any point where he was like this had to be exceedingly annoying.

The most probable reason, he figured, was his brains. Lucas, a small child, only eight, was already in the fourth grade. And even then, he was still soaring passed his peers in all of his studies. Arithmetic, writing, history. He was best at them all. He went to his local high school twice a week for chemistry lessons and could name all the elements on the periodic table without blinking an eye. He read better than even the smartest college level students. Teachers often said he was "too bright for his age", but he didn't think that was the case. Lucas believed the other students were just being to obsessed with trivial details to gather all the information they could and just be smart.

One could assume that if you pull all three of these reasons, it would be the making of an extremely irritating young child. But what did Lucas care what a few fickle people think of him? Why did it matter? It didn't matter, not to him. It concerned his mother though, all of the bullying, the isolation. She'd always tell him that he needed to loosen up, go out and play ball, makes some friends. But she always got the same response- "Yes, mummy"- and he would go right back to work doing his homework or reading one of those novels he loved so much. He figured the solitude was just another thing that made him unique.

It wasn't just his brains and his content loneliness that made this child unique, oh no. Lucas could play any instrument he placed his hands on, the piano, the guitar, the flute. He could play them all. But his favorites were always the strings. His grandmother had an old cello she would play whenever he visited, and as he watched her fingers move and listened to the sound leap off the strings he was fascinated.

He remembered the day he got his violin. It was Christmas, and Lucas had practically been begging since the beginning of November for this particular violin he passed each day as he walked to the school. His mother had simply shook her head each time he asked, telling him he had enough instruments already.

_"But, mummy! Just one more, I don't have any strings! Please?"_

_"No means no, Lucas. Now, stop asking!"_

After a two months of persisting, the usually quite stubborn boy gave up and come Christmas morning, he hadn't been expecting anything more exciting than some dumb toy his father thought he would enjoy, since all the _normal_ children like them. He came down the stairs rather lazily, his robe hanging slightly off his shoulders. His father leaned against the wall beside the tree, with multiple small boxes beneath them. _Pajamas, jeans and a shirt, toy car, action figures, outdoor toys (which included a football, tennis equipment, and much more) , books, children's books, and a... _One box had been larger than the others, by a generous amount. Lucas tore to the tree and yanked up the box, only to be stopped by his mother. _Save the best for last._ So he sat, for a painful 38 minutes and 52 seconds exactly for his mother to hand him the big box. He shredded the paper off the box, and then ripped open the box, noticing a case. _His violin. _He had very gingerly removed it from the box, then the case. He picked up the bow place the violin his neck and started to strum it. _He would never get tired of the sound those instruments made._

He played for months, just for fun. This was the one instrument he didn't want to screw up, and he asked for lessons. It didn't take long to convince his mother, and his father begrudgingly agree, still pouting about Lucas not wanting to participate in the upcoming season of children's football. His mother found a good teacher not far from their home, a fellow by the name of John Wright.

Lucas had never been more excited for anything in his life. _Ever. _He had practically bolted from the car into the building and had been scorned by the shopkeeper for running in like an animal. Lucas had then proceeded to calmly walk to Mr. Wright's teaching area, where he met a man with eyes like his, sharp cheekbones, and this all too familiar whorl in his hair. He had resisted the urge to giggle at this the entire lesson.

His favorite part of the lesson was actually the end. Lucas had been praised by his teacher after a lesson that went surprisingly well, and he couldn't help the smile that spread across his face as he waved goodbye to the man and skipped out to the car. He carefully tossed his violin into the backseat and then plopped down in the seat on the left side of the car. His father turned back to him. "How'd it go?"

Lucas smiled even wider. "Fantastic!"

He had wanted to go further into detail when his father quickly turned around, and cut him off. "Let's get home now. You're mum is making soup for dinner. We mustn't leave her waiting on us."

His father peeled out of the parking lot, and Lucas put his hands in his lap and sat quietly, occasionally glancing up at his father who stared straight-faced at the road. Lucas sighed, he just couldn't impress his father.

Lucas stared out at the road. One thing was for sure: He could not wait for his next lesson.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock's teen years were a jumbled mess of things he either wasn't sure of or wished they didn't happen. One day was a little of both.

Mycroft was such an idiot. He lectured Sherlock day after day on how abnormal he was, how insubordinate; caustic; obsessive. Sherlock would much rather sit and idle over one thing to find an answer, even if he knew the one he needed wasn't there. It was better than admitting he was wrong. But Mycroft, no. Mycroft merely made other people do his busywork. He never had to deal with, or wanted, the struggle. He easily could, he was intelligent enough, but his knowledge was largely ill-earned. Yet, he still somehow held his superiority over his brother, and perceived his opinion as the only opinion. To be completely fair, Sherlock was the same way – probably one of the many reasons the two were so often at odds.

The table next to Sherlock rattled under the vibration of his phone, and he rolled his eyes as he folded the book he was reading over his index finger and melodramatically flipped the phone open.

"Try not to be so horribly selfish, Sherlock. It would behoove you to talk to somebody other than yourself sometimes."  
"I need not waste my time socializing with blathering children."  
"It takes one to know one."  
"Branch out. Your opportunities to do so, though I cannot fathom why, are creating themselves." Mycroft's face was wrinkled in disgusting pride as Sherlock exhaled and looked back to his screen.

_Hey Sherlock, it's Eva, your lab partner._ Of course; he had to give out his number for school.  
_I know you're probably not going to answer, but I figured I may as well ask. I was going to the cinema and was wondering if you might join me._ Sherlock rolled his eyes, earning another disapproving glare from his brother.  
_Or whatever you like to do. Just thought I'd try._

"Mycroft, I have little to no appreciation for film. This is pointless."  
"Oh, a girl?" He snorted. Of course he snorted. He was always so pleased with himself.  
"I have little to no appreciation for girls, either."  
"I figured as much. Kind of give off that vibe, don't you?"  
"Would you just shut up, Mycroft? Other people are a waste of my time." Mycroft looked uncomfortable and yet unsurprised by Sherlock's answer. "I should have known you were incapable of being human." Sherlock had learned to deal with, and for the most part, ignore, his brother's taunts and jeers, but that had hurt. Letting it show would only really fuel the fire, but if anything, Sherlock had more humanity than anyone who threatened his – considering he didn't thrive on the judgment of others. How ironic and pathetic, letting Mycroft control his actions.

The ever-present smirk on his brother's face became prominent once again as he watched Sherlock exhale sharply and scowl as he loudly and obviously typed back. Mycroft knew somehow he could get to him. He usually meant well, and Mycroft had the advantage of knowing even Sherlock, convinced normal human behavior was based on primal chemicals and useless sentiment, was susceptible to those very things himself. He didn't Sherlock thinking he was a monster, nor did Mycroft think he was one – it's just that sometimes the threat of the notion was enough to spark action from him. Running on deduction opened up a world of manipulation he would have to use to make sure Sherlock stayed safe. Experiencing even the slightest hint of a relationship might ground him…or be extraordinarily embarrassing. Perhaps the latter.

"Happy, Mycroft? Now I'll have to bore myself with small talk instead of finishing my reading for school."  
"Now we both know you really don't care about astronomy." At this, even Sherlock smiled a bit. "Go have some fun." He knew Mycroft meant well. It was just that his way of doing that was far too commanding for his taste.

Eva's pocket buzzed and she jumped with surprise. Her hand hovered there for a moment, fingers dancing on the denim in fear of a dismissive, unfeeling answer. But at least she would have gotten an answer.

_Would love to. – SH_

Her face flushed and she blinked, reading it over three or four times. There was no way… Sherlock wouldn't 'love to' do anything. Maybe it was a big joke, maybe his ridiculous brother had found his phone and obliged him, knowing he had an issue with breaking promises. Maybe…actually, it was best not to question it. With slightly shaking hands, she answered him with the time and location.

Sherlock was a good enough liar, and could smile through distaste well enough that this should be easy enough. The cinema Eva had picked was within walking distance as well, which saved him the embarrassment of having to mess around with taxis or anything. He stuffed a few pounds in his pocket, quickly ran a hand through the top of his hair, and called it good. Hopefully this would be over quickly enough.

Now he could prove to Mycroft that he had a heart. Even if he was faking it. Sherlock took enough time to make sure he raised his eyebrows with a sarcastic smile at him as he shut the door behind him. As he began walking, he observed that the streets outside his house were bustling as always, couples hand in hand, tourists from every country you could think of with too many shopping bags cutting the circulation off their fingers, airplanes flying over their head, numerous shops of all kinds with people standing outside the windows basking at the displays inside, and that distinctive London smell that had washed over him. Sometimes it was hard to appreciate beauty when you've objectified what it's comprised of, but at least sometimes Sherlock could appreciate it, all the chaos and disorder all still somehow working as one coherent system.

He arrived at the front of the theatre, looking around him for an overenthusiastic, lanky, tan blonde probably donned in something that took her hours to put together. Probably something like a slouchy knit hat to keep her hair down in the wind or a few clips…

There she was. It was a little strange how quickly he noticed her, but he couldn't really help it. He actually had been the last couple weeks - she'd stand out to him in the hallways or classroom, which was entirely ridiculous, because she, like most others, was boring. No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn't help but to admit his eyes didn't object to her. But no - he couldn't allow himself to get involved, he had much more important things to do - like prove Mycroft wrong. Sherlock just wasn't expecting it to come so naturally.

"Eva?"  
"Sherlock!" her eyes sparkled and she ran up to him, wrapped her arms around him, and didn't really seem all too eager to let go. Surprisingly, though, it didn't really bug him that she was touching him. Hm. Odd. He hesitantly and quickly returned the hug and she pulled back. "Nice to see you." Her smile was pulling one out of Sherlock, who was completely unaware he was going so.  
"I'm surprised to say the same." Eva briefly looked a little insulted, until she realized that may be the closest she got to a compliment that night. He never loved to do anything; he never was glad to see anybody. Maybe she was even revealing a whole new layer of his personality; one that Sherlock didn't even know he had. Maybe she'd play with that a little. Maybe-

Sherlock grabbed her hand and started towards the doors. Eva could hardly breathe, let alone walk correctly to follow him. Sherlock Holmes was holding her hand. He was at the movies with her. They were on a date. And he wasn't just there to humor her. Sherlock. Holmes.

He had a similar reaction, but for an entirely different reason. He was more testing a hypothesis, just to see how his brain and body would react to something like that. It wasn't negative. This was strange. Sherlock wasn't sure he liked it. He was merely indulging on trivial flirting that he didn't know he was capable of. The endorphins that he was feeling racing down his spine were just a consistent reminder that Mycroft was right. Again. Even if humans did run on primal chemicals, it was hard to avoid them. Sherlock just felt so simple and almost animalistic. He didn't even care about Eva. The only reason he wanted to see her is because apparently she was attractive to him. That was so shallow and he hated it. At the same time, he hadn't felt more happy and comfortable in ages. He could still feel the tension in Eva's hand, but she stepped up closer to him in the line from where she'd been straggling back trying to collect herself, relaxed slightly, and intertwined their fingers. She looked up at Sherlock, who was looking forward trying to hide his stupid grin, but he wasn't doing a very good job of it.

After they had gotten their tickets, which were to something she had picked, some sort of satire or romantic comedy, he wasn't really sure, nor did he care all that much, Eva and Sherlock head into the theatre, taking their seats. This wasn't something he'd done before, but he had observed it was a relatively normal thing to do on a date. The lights faded quickly and Eva had leaned her head down to rest on his shoulder. That should have bothered him. It wasn't bothering him. Why wasn't it bothering him? Why was he still asking questions? Couldn't he just enjoy the feeling?

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"  
"Mm? Nothing, why would you say that?"  
"You're frowning a bit."  
"Oh, it's nothing, I'm just thinkin-"  
"Don't. Just enjoy it." he was sure she meant the movie, but he had answered his other question too.

Throughout the course of the movie, simple jokes had made the whole theater cackle, while Eva explained what was so funny quietly into Sherlock's ear. He silently laughed to look like he appreciated it, which seemed to really please Eva, but he didn't think much was too amusing. In fact, he was having a hard time even following the film, because he was too busy enjoying the feeling and overthinking everything. At the inevitable point of the movie where the two main characters had a sappy exchange, Sherlock noticed she was holding his hand a little tighter. He actually completely unclasped their hands, sat back, and instead started fidgeting with the fabric of the chair. His stomach was flipping over, his hand was tingling, and he he had no idea what was going on. Eva sat upright and turned a little bit, thinking he was uncomfortable. Sherlock even thought he was uncomfortable, but he was just panicking. He didn't know how to handle anything like this.

The end of the movie came quickly enough afterwards, and Sherlock made a point of saying absolutely nothing until he got outside. Eva's brow was wrinkled with regret and she was quickly barreling after his long strides. When he suddenly stopped in an aisle of the parking lot, she ran up in front of Sherlock, who was still obviously unaware of what was going on.

"I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, and I didn't even do that in purpose, it just kind of happened, and I jus-" The words that had been flying out of her mouth came to a sudden halt as Sherlock had placed his hand behind her head, nestling his fingers in her light, soft hair.

"Don't apologize." He pulled their faces together and pressed his lips against hers. He still had no idea what he was doing. This wasn't him. This wasn't right. But the way she returned the gesture, he didn't care what he was doing. He let whatever part of his instinct that was doing what it was take over. He pulled back quickly to whisper in her ear, "just enjoy the feeling." Eva quickly grabbed his hand and turned, running the opposite direction.  
"Wait, where are we going?"  
"I drove here. My car. More private." He liked the concise answer. He followed.

What happened next Sherlock didn't have completely intact memory of. They had driven off behind the building and climbed over the gearshift to the back. It was a frenzy of hands, lips, moving, body everywhere. He could remember he lost something he'd never get back and that he went too far for no reason. He was stupid, and it wasn't him that night. It was wrong.

But… it was fun. It was also harder to get redressed in the back seat of a car than he would have expected. The only thing he did remember was walking home in the dead of night whistling, and walking in to find an extremely surprised Mycroft.

"I didn't know there were any movies out that ran that long, Sherlock."  
"Oh, there aren't. We just…got to know each other some more afterwards."  
"Well, that's surprising, but nice, I suppose. What did you see?"  
"Everything." Sherlock chuckled and waited for a witty response from his brother.  
"Is that a movie title, or…" Mycroft wasn't picking up on the gist he was given.  
"Sure."  
"I don't think I understan-"  
"Never mind, Mycroft." He shrugged and went back to the television.  
"Very well. I guess I was wrong for once; you are as human as the rest of us." _Ha. He had no idea._ "I'm glad you had a nice time."  
"Likewise."

The other thing he remembered that was after that night, he didn't see much of Eva. At first it was probably to avoid awkward confrontations, but after a while he had stopped seeing her altogether. He never really found out why. Her friends told Sherlock her parents were keeping her home and making her get a job instead of finishing high school. Something about needing to help provide for her family. Didn't matter to Sherlock. He was never going to let anything like that happen again. He was in control. He never wanted to see Eva again.

But it sure did feel good proving Mycroft wrong for once.


End file.
